


No Telling What I'll Do on My Own

by bluspirits



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 04:10:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18865426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluspirits/pseuds/bluspirits
Summary: Arthur gets a drink in Valentine, for old times' sake.





	No Telling What I'll Do on My Own

**Author's Note:**

> This whole fic is one big spoiler, and I know it's been a while since the game came out, but still, you've been warned. 
> 
> So, uh, if you go and get drunk in Valentine post Lenny's death, Arthur will still shout all those mispronunciations of Lenny, and look around for him, and boy, does that hurt. So this is my attempt to process some of those feelings. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Gimme a whiskey,” he says as he throws some coins down on the bar. The bartender swipes them up and pours out a shot, slower than Arthur would like.

Arthur throws it back quick enough to make up for that, though. He waves a hand for another, shoving his other hand down his pocket in search of coins, which he slaps down on the bartop. The bartender squints at him, like he just knows Arthur’s going to be trouble, but takes the money and pours the drink anyway.

“Good man,” Arthur says absently, and with enough mockery to make the bartender frown. The other man shakes his head and sets about wiping the counter.

"Drinking to forget?" he says, with a shake of his head, and Arthur answers him by throwing more coins down, motioning for another whiskey. 

* * *

 “You’re my favorite one to drink with,” he says, taking a long sip of his beer. Lenny blinks.

“Really? Not them?” he tilts his head in the direction of the fire, where John and Javier are tangled up with their arms around each other’s shoulders and Javier’s guitar between them. He thinks it might be some kind of music lesson passing between them, but he can’t truly tell. Hosea sits across from them, tapping his foot, and every now and then Bill passes through on his stumbling, drunken circle of camp to shout something at them. It looks like fun.

He turns back to Lenny. “Nah. They get all-” he waves a hand, words not really coming easily to him right about now, but he thinks Lenny gets it.

“Coming from you?” Lenny laughs as he trails off, taking another drink. From how easy the words come, he’s much more lucid than Arthur, who had retreated to this table when the next drink had made his chest tighten and the sight of the others around the fire had made his thoughts dark. Lenny had followed him, and he appreciates the gesture of loyalty. “That’s really something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I-” the kid throws his hands up in surrender, stumbling slightly. Arthur is reminded sharply of how new he is to the gang, of how young compared to Arthur.

He claps him on the shoulder, maybe a little too hard from the way Lenny jerks forward. “Nah, calm down, I’m kidding.”

Bill comes wandering past once again, tilting dangerously close to falling on his side, and in a rare gesture of kindness, drops another bottle down in front of Arthur, who gladly takes it. And then Javier starts singing from over by the fire, and Lenny and Arthur join in, despite the distance, and Dutch and Molly start dancing, and Molly twirls around and around until she nearly ends up on the ground, laughing the whole way. Jenny and Karen are playing some kind of game, throwing coins at a glass, while Tilly heckles the both of them.

Not far away, Abigail sits in the grass, taking Jack and throwing him up in the air as he giggles. In a rare display of attention, John has left the fire, and sits by their side, absently braiding Abigail’s hair and smiling at his son. Lenny’s eyes are on the fire. No one seems to notice the little family but Arthur.

“I had a son. He’s dead now,” Arthur says into the noise, still staring, his voice quiet enough to be lost. He pauses. “If he’d grown up, I think I’d have wanted him to be something like you. Maybe without the gang stuff, but-”

He shakes his head, resolutely not looking at Lenny as he speaks. “You’re a good kid,”

There’s something unreadable on Lenny’s face, or at the very least, something he can’t read this many drinks in.

“Never mind. Forget I said that.”

Lenny nods, and his mouth opens to answer, but he doesn’t say anything for a second too long. Before he can speaks, they’re interrupted by a new arrival.

Jenny swings over, smiling. She puts her hands down on Lenny’s shoulders and winks at Arthur, her chin resting on the top of Lenny's head. “Mind if I borrow him?”

He waves a hand, almost grateful for the interruption. And certainly enjoying the look on Lenny’s face, the kind of slightly shocked expression of a teenager with a crush. “Nah. Just be gentle with him.”

“Always am,” Jenny says with a wink, grabbing Lenny’s hand and hoisting him to his feet. They stumble away, hand in hand, and Arthur’s eyes follow them until they’ve slipped far enough away from the fire to be lost in the night.

* * *

Arthur stares down at the empty glass and the dirty bartop.

Things just feel like they’re moving too fast around him. He’s got the mirror he promised Miss O’Shea still burning a hole in his pocket, cause he was too slow to give it to her. Too slow to notice there was a problem.

To slow to stop them shooting Hosea, to slow to stop them shooting Lenny.

He was too far away, caught in the idea of caution for Hosea. But Lenny, well Lenny, he could have saved. If he had just been better, faster, anything.

He can’t exactly visit Molly’s grave, to leave the mirror, absolve himself of that small regret, seeing as she doesn’t have one, just ashes in the woods. He could go find Hosea and Lenny’s but that would be-

They never really got around to burying Jenny proper, like Lenny had wanted too. Hard to do in the snow, so they left her in a shallow hole with a cross made from bits of wagon, likely already buried or blown over by snow by now. One more regret. He should start keeping a list or something. Imagining Lenny buried beneath the dirt isn’t doing his state of mind any favors, so he takes another drink.

“You alright there?” the man a few feet down the bar asks, and ain’t that nice of him, the good of humanity and all that.

“There was this kid,” he slurs, leaning heavily against the bar. “He’s dead now.”

“Yours?”

“My family.”

“Aw, I’m sorry, friend,” the man says, like he doesn’t know what else there is to say, and honestly, Arthur doesn’t know either. “Hey, get this man a round on me.”

Arthur nods his thanks. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, the alcohol, and the grief both heavy on his tongue, and he knows if he starts, he’ll be confessing all kinds of crimes to this stranger, from bank robbery, to not being quick enough to save a life.

So he stays quiet and downs another drink. 

* * *

Lenny stands over him, looking like he’s never even heard of whiskey, never touched a single drop, like he has never heard the word hangover. Arthur groans, feeling like it’s all a little unfair. He unsticks his cheek from the table and does his best to get his head upright, despite the throbbing pain behind his eyes.

“You feeling alright?” Lenny asks, taking a sip from his coffee.

He sighs. Both his vision and his memory remain frustratingly blurry. “Please tell me I didn’t do anything real embarrassing last night.”

Lenny shrugs, a small smile dancing across his face. “Nah. Nothing too bad”

He reaches out to help him up. Arthur takes his hand without complaint. “Just between us though, but, you can get kinda sad when you’re drunk.”

“I know, I know,” he shakes his head, “Sorry if I dragged you down with me.” 

* * *

 “You have to leave.”

Arthur opens his eyes, though it takes a great deal of effort. It takes several seconds to realise he’s on the floor.

“You need to get out.”

He pushes himself up to a sitting position and blinks until the shapes in front of him resolve into something he can recognize. The bartender stands over him, hands on his hips.

“Out.” he points at the door.

Arthur holds up a hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Hey,” the bartender calls after him, as he’s managed to get up to his feet with great effort. “That friend you were calling about, before you passed out, Lenny, or something, he around? Cause you look like you could use some help.”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He stumbles for the door, a hand to his head, as the sunlight drives a spike through his brain. Everything hurts. Bartender was right, he could use a friend. Drinking really is no fun when you do it alone.

But alone seems to be more and more common these days.


End file.
